


A New Beginning

by AnontheNullifier



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A New Beginning, Angst, F/M, Reconciliation, but ends with fluff, comics Scarlet Vision, pinch hitting, rekindling the romance, scarletvisionexchange2017, sve2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-30 18:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12115029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnontheNullifier/pseuds/AnontheNullifier
Summary: After a horrific experience, Wanda and Vision slowly re-enter into a tentative friendship.  As they get to know each other once again, they discover that perhaps, despite all the odds, it might just be possible to start a new beginning together.Written for the Scarlet Vision Exchange 2017!





	A New Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scrletvsn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrletvsn/gifts).



> As someone who is not well-versed in current comics, this prompt was a doozy, fun, but difficult (especially having to write it in a week as a pinch hitter!). I hope this fulfills everything you you were hoping for with the prompt! 
> 
> I want to give a big thank you to androidavenger for giving me a wonderful run down on Viv. I also want to say to my beta, Atendrilofscarlet, you are amazing beyond words, especially reading this long story when there was barely any time left for the exchange.
> 
> If you are like me and aren’t familiar with the comics, I've outlined the most important points at the end (so feel free to click the "more notes" button, read it, and come back up here). Also a warning, if you read my other work, Wanda and Vision are going to be different here, not a whole lot, but they've experienced different things in the comics so I wanted to honor that.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Returning to the Avengers was not particularly easy this time around (not that it ever is, really). The animus from his descent into fealty, the disbelief at the way he prioritized his own family over the makeshift one that is the Avengers, was already a stifling, unspoken disappointment in the air that often led to uncomfortable prickles dancing along his spine. Though, to be fair, not nearly as uncomfortable as the crushing realization (re-realization is more appropriate here despite the fact the term does not exist) that no one seemed to take into consideration his thoughts, opinions, or emotions before they acted. This, however, assumes his teammates recognize his opinions and emotions as real.

Vision releases a sigh as he leans back against the wall, eyes closing, a physical manifestation of the way he cuts off the train of thought, not wanting to dip further into the unfathomable depths of his emotions (yes, he has to convince himself of this, his emotions are real). No, the reason this time is so uncomfortable is because no one knows how to handle acknowledging being corrupted by a virus, what to say to someone whose body has been used against its will for decidedly un-heroic and horrific deeds. They all tiptoe, flash semi-friendly smiles before whispering behind backs, voices stopping when Vision takes one step closer, dispersing completely if he dares to take another step.

All except one. A flash of red passes the door to the locker room for the fifteenth time since he took up his post-mission vigil of self-reflection. It will be exactly four minutes, thirty-seven seconds, and ten milliseconds before she completes the circuit, head turning fifteen degrees to the right for a quick glance before her feet continue with the built up momentum of her body. Vision cannot determine if he should say something, acknowledge her presence, or if he should remain, head flush against the cold metal of a locker and his fingers playing with the end of his cape. The third, more tempting option, is to simply phase away, fly home before Viv begins to worry, yet he cannot seem to commit to such an evasive action, body anticipating her return to the doorway with a diluted, anxious curiosity.

It takes three more passes before her steps slow, body framed by the door, one hand braced against the wooden frame and the other bunched into a fist at her hip. There is a flicker of scarlet that moves through her eyes as her mouth tilts just enough to the left to portray what one might call an easy smile, though he can tell it is strained, uncertain, uncharacteristic of the confidence she usually exudes. “Hey.”

“Hello, Wanda.”

Her mouth tightens into a thin line as she takes a hesitant step inside, his response a signal they set up long ago, back when they first joined the Avengers. It simply means he is receptive to talk. Slowly she approaches him, sitting approximately three feet away, her hands falling into her lap, fingers intertwining. “I-how are you doing?”

Small talk has always confounded Vision as it seems unnecessary to build rapport every conversation when you could simply say exactly what you wish without pretense. But it seems a human trait and so he has learned to incorporate responses into his programming, have a set list that he can scan if need be. “I am fine. Yourself?”

“I’m okay.”  Typically the script of small talk requires the initiator to continue, yet Wanda pauses, a silence thickening between them, growing denser at an exponential rate that convinces him he could reach out and meet resistance in the air. But he has no desire to probe the impetus of having this conversation, their first since the unfortunate incident (as the team seems to label it in conversation). “I, um,” she glances to the side, fingers tangling tighter as a cloud of scarlet engulfs her hands, “I don’t know how to cope with everything.” The everything is clearly implied, his mind retreating at the undertone of dismay, of self-hatred in the tremble of her voice. This is not what he wants to think about right now, caged in his mind while his body acts, yet he also doesn’t wish to deny the truth, particularly when it is finally clear that he is not alone in his hurt.

“Neither do I.”

This seems to break the tension between them, a soft, sad smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “I thought you’d understand.” Her body shifts, legs swinging closer to him as she repositions and angles herself to be more open to him, a position far more conducive to a conversation. “I just thought I-we were stronger, that it couldn’t happen again, like how many times can someone be possessed in a lifetime?” The self-deprecating tone almost forces a smirk on his face.

“I am certain we could come up with a predictive statistical model to determine the answer.”

Wanda releases an amused huff, the sound alien, yet still familiar enough to ignite a tiny spark of pride at eliciting the response. “I’m sure you could, with charts and everything. Call it the-”

A synthesized _Domo Arigoto, Mr. Roboto_ bursts from his pocket, echoing off the walls, Wanda’s lips pucker in amusement as he fumbles with the device. _If I have curfew, so do you. Come home and bring pizza...please._  “My apologies, it is Viv.”

“Oh, how is she doing?”

Vision types his response out while weighing the question. “Well. I believe the Champions have been quite beneficial for her social and emotional development after,” he pauses before taking a cue from Wanda, “everything.”

The smile on her face is genuine as she says, “Good. She’s a great kid.”

“I- yes she is.” Another _Domo Arigoto_ fills the air as Viv sends back a _Curfew, father!_ “I must go.”  

Wanda rises in synchronization with him, hands clasping as her eyes follow his movements, a tenseness in her muscles that implies she wishes to reach out, perhaps brush his shoulder goodbye, an action that used to be normative, quite some time ago. But she resists and he determines the subtle warmth pulsing in his chest at her control is from appreciation, though it also feels vaguely of affection. “Vizh?” They make eye contact and he gives her a slight nod to continue. “Would you be interested in talking sometime, I-” her hands unclasp, falling resolutely to her side as she tries to reconfigure her usual confidence, “I think it would be good for us, after everything.”

Confusion bunches his forehead, certain they did just that minutes ago and not entirely eager to repeat the experience again. “May I consider the request before answering?”

“Of course. Don’t feel obligated.”

 

There is a scratching under the table, an enthusiastic tap dance of four paws that grows more frenzied every time Viv phases her arm through the table. “Viv, it is well founded that feeding dogs table food only increases the frequency of begging.”

“He’s just going to fly up onto the table if I don’t feed him.” The tone is matter-of-fact, correctly so, several weeks ago they had to deal with Sparky realizing that he could fly and phase into the cabinet containing the dog treats. Now Vision and Viv take turns moving the treats every few days to keep the dog confused and entertained. “Why’d you stay so late today?”

The question is said with an air of innocence but is laced with concern and a protectiveness that has existed in his daughter since the loss of her brother and mother, but that intensified after she dispelled the virus from his body weeks ago. “I was speaking with Wanda.”

Viv phases her hand back up through the table, placing the half-eaten slice of pizza on the plate while her eyes narrow, consternation pursing her lips as she studies him. “What did you talk about?”

“I believe she was attempting to ascertain if I would be an empathetic ear concerning recent events.” Vision can look intimidating, is often told he is terrifying in an inhuman way, but the soul-stripping stare currently on Viv’s face is from her mother, all the way down to the slight crinkle near her eyes and the intense disbelief hovering unspoken on her lips. “She, um,” the stare should be listed as part of her super powers, though, he sometimes reasons, perhaps all teenagers have this skill, but it does not stop him from withering beneath it. “She wishes to meet up, speak again.”

Without removing her eyes from him, Viv picks up a piece of pizza, peeling a pepperoni off and eating it as the gears of her irises twist and twirl in thought. “Do you think that is a good idea?”

Which happens to be the exact thought that led to him delaying his decision when Wanda inquired as to his willingness. The difference, however, is the emphasize Viv places on the good and the slow, painstaking way she peels another pepperoni off the pizza, suggests there is a clear answer. “I believe there could be some merit in having a reasonable discussion with someone else who understands all that happened.”

“Perhaps.” The terseness of the reply makes her displeasure and suspicion of the suggestion quite clear.

“Do you believe it is an illogical action?”

Viv breathes in, collecting the air in her lungs for several seconds before releasing it with a drawn out, contemplative sigh. “I worry you will get hurt if you re-establish this connection.”

It is not a wholly illogical concern, but Vision understands it based on his own past, which means it seems odd coming from his daughter. “But you have spoken highly of Wanda and the help she supplied in the aftermath of Vin and Virginia’s deaths.” Their names are still painful to utter, but he and Viv made a pact to not shy from using their names because it is important to never allow their memory to fade, to dissipate into the earth without a word or a tear or wisp of sadness.

“She has been helpful to me, but to you,” Viv bites her bottom lip, eyes squinting as she wobbles her head side to side, choosing her next words carefully, “she has hurt you far too many times.”

This is not a lie or exaggeration. “I have hurt her as well.” And neither is his comment.

“But she is not my father, I am allowed to play favorites.” Another inhale and exhale leads to her shoulders dropping into a reluctant slouch. “If you want to talk to her, you should, but be careful.” The concern fades quickly from her face, replaced with teenaged indifference as she pushes her chair back, throwing a shrug at him before turning to leave the room. “Do what you want. I have a team meeting in the morning, good night.”

 

Chess has always been one of Vision’s favorite mental exercises. The strategies are similar and yet deviate just enough to make mapping the paths of the pieces exhilarating. He has spent many afternoons plotting both sides of a match (after beating everyone repeatedly, eventually no one wished to play with him anymore), recalculating the odds over and over until he found a perfect strategy. The difference between chess and real life, however, is that chess has a finite number of variables which means it is difficult, but not impossible, to understand every possible action. Currently he feels as if he is playing chess but with pieces he has never seen and on a board that lacks the typical layout and dimensions he has become accustomed to using. “So…”

Wanda sits in front of him, hands cupped around a steaming mug of tea, eyes bouncing between his face, the mug, the couple laughing at the table next to theirs, and the ceiling. Viv insisted he meet with Wanda in public, a suggestion that he could not find any fault with, that is until he realized how difficult it would be to discuss matters of possession and mind control, of feeling betrayed by your own team when normal people were milling about, throwing interested stares and not-so-subtly eavesdropping. “Do you remember much, about it?” Their surroundings mean they have to be cryptic and cognizant of not offering information to prying ears that could be leaked to the papers or cause panic.

The question immediately sends his sympathetic nervous system into action, muscles readying themselves to phase, escape the situation, but he centers his mind, controls his body to remain in his seat. “All of it, unfortunately. I was,” several words flash through his mind until one seems to fit the sensation of being controlled by the virus, “merely a spectator with no control.”

“I only have flashes,” he watches as her fingernails tap the ceramic mug, the paint chipping at the tips of her index fingers. “Bits and pieces, but it’s like my body knows everything, aches and flinches at random things, I just don’t have the memory.” Scarlet flashes around her hands, causing the steam to billow more freely from the mug. “I hate it, I wish I knew what happened.”

“No.” Vision shakes his head along with the word, “you do not want to know.”

Somehow he had never made the connection that Viv’s stare, that Virginia’s stare, matches almost point for point the angle and narrowness of Wanda’s. “I think I deserve to have some idea.”

The options are limited, the strategies similar yet slightly different. He could refuse, keep the information to himself and repress it as is his wont in life. He could inform her of general actions and the most pertinent information, save the most unsavory for repression. Or he could be honest with her, allow her to determine what to do with the information, perhaps it would allow him to find someone who can understand the quiet terror in his mind when he sees certain items, the paralysis of his body when he remembers the lives they took. “You do.” Here the strategies branch, he can tell her everything now, he could insist on spreading out the information, sharing it piece by piece over weekly coffee meetings, there is always a letter or email, though that is traceable.

But then he glances up at her, takes in her stare and the half-cocked tilt of her head, watches as her hair cascades over her shoulders and he can remember her staring at him like this over the newspaper, wrapped in her pink fuzzy robe, hair ruffled, asking him to help her with the crossword, but he, for some reason or another, refused, instead offered her a separate, far easier option. “Would you,” the suggestion forces its way out of his memory before he has time to really think about it, only briefly considering the major drawback of the tactic. He doesn’t even register his own feelings on it until he feels his body trembling at the invasion of his autonomy that he is about to welcome, one that he is terrified to allow after all that has happened. But he is unable to stop the words and later reasons that this would have been the best option anyway as it does not require him to have to put to words their experience, “like to take it from my mind?”

“Vision…” the stare moves from annoyance and defiance to concern, “are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Wanda glances around at the other tables, gauging the best way to go about a mental exchange of information. “Okay.” It used to be she had to make grand movements, a sweep of her arms to the side, stretched as far as they could reach before they swiped forward, palms meeting to spark scarlet. Now, after many years of exploring her powers, honing in on the best incantations and finger movements, she is able to send a tendril of scarlet into his mind with barely a movement, just a flick of her pinky.

His body flinches, mind resisting the intrusion, but he is able to talk down his processing units, inform his body that the scarlet is welcome, though still uncomfortable. The tendril snakes through his mind, poking through each memory unit he makes available to her, and even though he is a bit rusty at providing her information from his mind, she does not rush him, is patient as he sorts through what to share. The spark of appreciation forms in his chest at just how careful she’s being, a feeling that is reminiscent of better times, a far cry from the numerous occasions when she turned these powers against him.

When her powers recede, his body flinches again, though this time with a sense of loss, a quiet longing whispering in the back of his mind.

A sharp, guttural, wet intake of breath breaks his reverie and he finds Wanda with a hand over her mouth and trails of tears flowing from her eyes, the fat drops plopping onto the wooden table. “Wanda?” He reaches out a hand but stops himself inches from her own, fully aware how he has had no desire to be touched by anyone since regaining his sense of self. The last thing he wants is to cross the line, to go against her wishes of physical or emotional touch, to violate any trust between them because there has to be something separating them from the monsters they were turned into. “May I comfort you?” All Wanda manages is a nod and a turn of her hand, palm facing up in invitation, and Vision extends his arm three more inches, hovering his palm above hers before committing to the action and grasping her hand. “Wanda?”

“I-”

The people next to them are watching intently, the woman pulling out her phone and not even attempting to hide the fact she is recording their interaction. “May I walk you home?”

“Yes.”

No other words are exchanged when they stand, hands still interlocked as they weave between the tables. Silence wraps tightly around them as Wanda leads the way to her apartment, a location Vision has never visited and never asked about, certain he would never need to go there. The continuation of her tears is concerning, but Vision attempts to quell the overwhelming confusion of his own emotions with steady squeezes of her hand, mixing short grips with longer ones, conveying a Morse code message of “O.K.” just as they used to do when words failed.

It’s not until they reach the door of her apartment that she returns the pressure, fingers constricting around his palm in one steady motion. “Thank you.” Wanda extracts her hand from his and the air is cold against his palm causing his fingers to ache for companionship. Instead of reaching out to her, he simply slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I think,” a shaky hand brushes a strand of hair from her face, “I need some time to process everything.”

“That is understandable.”

Wanda offers him a tight-lipped smile before waving her wrist to unlock the door. “Do you mind if I?” The way her arms extend out finishes the sentence, the request clear and he finds himself acquiescing, stepping into her embrace while curling his arms around her waist. “Thank you, Vizh.”

“You are welcome, Wanda.” She steps away, disappearing into the darkness of her apartment, and leaves him alone and confused, the feel of her body pressed against his lingering, sending jolts of electricity up his spine in a way that is not completely unpleasant or unwelcome. But he shakes his head, certain something must be malfunctioning.

 

It turns out that learning of the information is just the first step, the second step is to process it, and so Vision and Wanda find themselves gravitating towards each other, speaking after meetings, before missions, during the lulls in mission, after training, on the weekends, occasionally on the phone late at night when she cannot sleep, though this often leads to Viv phasing into his room and telling him curfew applies to the home as well.

Sometimes, though, they go a week or more without a deep conversation, saying no more than hellos and how are yous. So their healing is spread out but when they are able to section off time it is filled with difficult, carefully worded conversations as they strive to work through the trauma together. It is a strange course of events, one that drums up feelings and thoughts he believed he had shoved to the furthest depths of his mind, wrapping a vibranium chain around it, and locking it with a 20 digit passcode. But each conversation he finds easier, notes how they sit slightly closer, how his body flows with more ease, muscles no longer perennially tensed with the thought of fleeing. They don’t even just leave it at the demonic possession and virus that led to them joining Hydra, but take their conversations back in time, talk through misuses of power, mental breakdowns, Vin, Virginia, and Victor, about disassembled and reassembled bodies and consciousnesses and the impacts the emotionlessness had on both of them. Tentatively, seven months after their first conversation, Wanda even brings up the twins and they spend a week speaking in broken sentences and heightened emotion about all that came of their children.

It also leads to a realization for Vision that, perhaps, he has not put forth enough effort to rekindle a connection with his long lost children, though he knows it is primarily because of the deep, unforgiving pain that knots into an unnavigable bundle in his stomach at the thought that they might have been happier with their second families. But Wanda touches his arm while he considers this, their months getting to know each other again leading to a relaxation in the rules of asking before delivering a friendly touch. “They ask about you a lot.”

“Do you see them often?”

Wanda nods, pauses while biting the right portion of her lower lip, and then raises a hand, shaking it to communicate the answer is more of a sort-of than a definite. “We get lunch every month or two, sometimes with both of them, sometimes separately.”

This is far more than him, he has only visited Billy once, spent an hour at his house, meeting his boyfriend Teddy and learning about his time on the Young Avengers. He left feeling reinvigorated, wanting to connect again, but nothing came of it, a failure on both sides to pursue the relationship, he thinks. “Are they doing well?”

“Yeah, they seem happy.” Her hand descends onto his arm again, remaining for 1.15 seconds before leaving, just long enough to encourage him to make eye contact. “You can join us next month, they’ll both be there and Billy’s bringing Teddy as well.”

Vision feels his mind freezing, chest constricting out of fear or perhaps nervousness, he is unsure at the moment. “Oh, I do not wish to impose.”

“You’re not imposing.”

The sudden interruption of _Domo Arigoto_ signals that his curfew is up, Viv enforcing it with far too much glee and rigor than he does to her. “I must go.”

Wanda stands with him, following him to the door, the rings on her fingers thudding against the wooden slab as she holds the door open for him. “Night, dark eyes.”  The nickname slips out unintended, that much is clear from the way Wanda’s eyes and mouth widen and she shuts the door quickly so she does not have to correct or explain the misstep.

Her words burrow deep within his skin, mind clouded and heart racing as he replays the glimmer in her eyes and the lopsided smirk as she wished him goodnight. The physical response is telling, and it has been occurring with greater frequency and intensity each time they meet, yet he is unwilling to allow his emotions to follow suit, demanding they listen to logic and reason and not go down this path once more. But the problem with emotion with (he clenches his fists even at the thought of this word) love is that it does not have to follow the demands of rational thinking, in fact, from his experience, it is when love enters an equation that you are no longer able to predict what will happen next.

“Father?”

Vision looks up, meeting the narrowed gaze and cocked head of Viv, her green hair falling lazily over her shoulder. He had not realized he had arrived home. “Did I make curfew?”

She glances at the clock and then turns her questioning stare back towards him. “Just barely, so I guess I won’t have to ground you this time.” As the words leave her mouth they pull her neutral expression up just slightly into a smile, one that he reciprocates. “You seem confused.”

The majority of individuals he interacts with on a daily basis believe in rapport building in conversations, of tip-toeing around what they mean. But Viv takes after him, her bluntness executed with aplomb and it is refreshing, a bit unnerving, but at least he is never confused as to her intentions. This also means that he speaks more openly with her than anyone else at the moment, though Wanda is beginning to reach similar levels, but nothing will compare to his daughter. “Wanda called me dark eyes tonight.”  The comment is not as self-explanatory as he thought, Viv’s expression returning to bewilderment. “It is what she used to call me, when we were together.”

“How did it make you feel?”

His body says one thing, heart still four beats faster than its resting rate, his palms tingly which he always considers analogous to sweaty, if his body could produce sweat, and there is a stubborn warmth that pulses in his chest as he replays the good night one more time. “Not unpleasant.”

Viv nods, mouth drooping into a contemplative scowl. “Are you intending to rekindle your romantic affections for her?”

Despite her typical bluntness, this has been a topic they have danced around, neither seeming to want to bring it up, allowing it to fester in the corner where they can throw a blanket over it and pretend as if it does not exist. But now she has pulled the blanket away and laid it bare in front of them. “It would,” part of the reason he has so willingly kept it hidden is that he himself is unsure of the answer, “be disrespectful to your mother and if history is any indication, would likely not end terribly well.”

Vision expects Viv to agree, has not missed the hesitation in her voice whenever they speak of Wanda or the way she shrivels up (just slightly, he is uncertain if anyone else would notice) when he mentions he cannot do something because he is meeting with Wanda. “You have been happy lately,” Viv takes a step closer to him, breathing in deeply before continuing, “it has been refreshing and you have been laxer with the rules.” This is said as an aside, a facetious smile dancing along her lips before they resettle into a serious line. “Mother did not die so that we remain miserable.” Another step and she is standing in front of him, close enough that she can lift her hands and frame his face with her palms. “She died so we can live and part of living is being happy.”

“I am happy to have you in my life.”

The revolution of her eyes in teenage embarrassment and disbelief causes him to smile, reminding him so much of Wanda whenever he told the toaster joke. “There are different types of happiness and I cannot give you the same type as Wanda.” She removes her hands, crossing her arms and tucking her fingers into her sides. “You deserve contentment,” her eyes narrow once more, voice dropping an octave into a range more suitable for threats, “as long as you don’t abandon me.”

This time Vision steps forward, enveloping his daughter in a hug, tightening his grip as she tries to squirm out of the embrace with a disgusted father! But he holds fast, placing a rare kiss to her head with a promised, “I will not abandon you for anyone.”

 

Vision does not act on his newly rediscovered feelings, however, because if life has taught him anything, it is that no matter how strongly you love someone, it cannot protect you from the harshness of reality. In fact, love can blind you so much that you ignore every neon flashing sign pointing towards doom. He continues to speak with Wanda, not wishing to lose that friendship (terrified to lose her again, if he is being honest), but he can never bring himself to mention the dark eyes comment, to assess how she interpreted it, and he thinks the fact that she doesn’t mention it either indicates it was a slip-up and nothing more.

“Father.” Viv phases through the wall of their home office, hands hanging at her side with a placid expression on her face.

“Viv.”

“I invited Wanda over for dinner, she will be here in ten minutes.” Her eyes take in his outfit, lips smacking in thought. “You should change into a,” wrinkles form on her face as she scrunches her nose in disgust, “quieter sweater.”

The comment leads him to look down at the bright yellow chevrons adorning his chest, fingers picking at the fabric in confusion since it’s one of his favorites. When he returns his attention to his daughter she is gone, the room empty and unable to answer any of the questions whirling around his mind about what exactly is going on. But, he reasons, if Viv believes his sweater should change, he can do that for her, his body lifting from the chair as he phases upstairs to select a more muted, navy sweater. As he pulls the sweater over his head he realizes that they have not had anyone over for dinner...ever. Yet tonight they will despite there being no indication of food being prepared or beverages bought.

The doorbell chimes exactly ten minutes later, Wanda clearly getting better about being on time, and Vision phases down just beating Viv to the door. Slowly (after a pointed, questioning gaze is leveled at his daughter) he turns the knob, opening the door to find a grinning Wanda holding a steaming box of pizza. “Hi.”

“Hello, Wanda.” Though they have met often in the past months at Wanda’s apartment, this is the first time she is coming to his house, and his body and mind are in an uneasy disagreement about how to act. It feels sacrilegious, for some reason, to invite her in, this house containing only the memories of his family and he worries he is dishonoring their lives by inviting in a new, extremely, unquestionably human body. But at the same time there is a sense of rightness in her being here, a brief flash of carrying her bridal style into their new home in the suburbs, a glorious spike of joy at the thought. Hands grip his arm and shove him out of the way, determining the next course of action since he seems unable to act, and Viv replaces him at the door, offering to take the pizza from Wanda.

“Please come in.”

“How are you doing, Viv?”

The girl shrugs, leading them all into the kitchen, the uncaring sway in her walk dispelling his uneasiness, but only very slightly. “About the same as the last time we talked.” This sets off alarms in Vision’s head, the tiny amount of uneasiness he’d recently lost rushing back, realizing that something happened between the two that he is unaware of, but Viv keeps them moving, setting the pizza down and pointing at the chairs, not allowing him time to fully think through all of this. “I um,” Viv does not sit, instead she remains standing, fingers interlocking in nervousness, “actually got a call from the Champions for a...training exercise so I need to go.”

Vision’s muscles tense, mind racing as he watches her float towards the back door. “Viv?”

“Bye father, bye Wanda.”

A chuckled, “Bye, Viv,” is the final push to get her out of the house and suddenly Vision finds himself alone with Wanda in his own house, separated only by a pizza box. “She’s tricky.” It is said with admiration and Vision finds his chest filling with pride at the admission, agreeing that his daughter is to be lauded, though he is still uncertain exactly the reason for such praise at the moment.

“Did she inform you of her intentions?”

Wanda flicks her wrist, opening the box and grabbing a slice of pizza, grinning at him with a shake of her head, his eyes focusing on the way the tips of her hair stir along her shoulders. “You’re not very good at reading teenagers, are you?” It’s technically a question, though the tone is rhetorical and amused, her lips parting to reveal a sliver of her teeth, a disarmingly nonchalant grin. “Do you think she’s actually going to a training?”

Clearly the answer is no, based solely on the wicked gleam in her eyes but he would like to believe the basis of his relationship with his daughter is sewn with honesty. “I believe she is going to be with the other Champions and it is likely they may,” he gesticulates in an effort to pull out the proper phrase, distracted by the quirk of Wanda’s eyebrow and gleeful stare, “utilize their powers in which case it would be possible to label it as a training.”

“For all your brooding and intimidating intellect, you’re still adorably naïve about some things, Vizh.”

An easy and embarrassed smile lifts his lips as his gaze slides away from hers, though it does not stay away from her for long, idling back so he can meet hers eyes again, finding an old comfort in the contours of her face. “Why would she invite you to dinner only to leave?”

“Oh yeah, she’s got the wool pulled over your eyes.” Wanda smirks at him as she takes the last bite of her pizza, hands brushing together to remove the crumbs from her palms. “Did you know she and I got breakfast this morning?”

This game, funneling down from broad information down to the desired specifics, is quite ancient, an infuriating and yet invigorating form of communication that occurred only with Wanda. Tony tried it with him, but Vision never found it as enjoyable, would never play along. But Wanda’s stare, the tap of her finger on the table, and the coquettishly taunting smile draws him easily into the game. “I did not.”

“Didn’t think so.” She pauses, eyes roaming over the cabinets lining the walls. “Where do you keep your glasses?”  

For all his attempts to blend in with human behavior, he has never quite gotten hosting down, though he did use to cook large meals for the team, but Wanda always handled the social responsibility of hosting while he focused on the food. “Water?”

“Please.”  

Vision rises from the table, hovering to the third cabinet from the corner, the right door, second shelf, and removes a glass, his body following the predetermined path to grab the pitcher of filtered water from the fridge.  “Was there a reason-” Where the water should be is a blue, intricately labeled bottle of wine. There’s also a corkscrew and two long-stemmed wine glasses set on the shelf next to the bottle.

“Something wrong?”

“I believe Viv might need to be grounded for breaking the law.”  Which he knows is not as easy to assess as it is with traditional humans. Viv is technically programmed as a teenager but lacks the necessary passage of time to actually have an age, so it might not be illegal for her to have purchased alcohol.

A feather light touch ghosts along his shoulder, Wanda’s body coming to stop next to him, close enough that he can feel her gravitational pull, contemplates allowing his feet to move an inch to the right so that their shoulders brush, but he plants his feet firmly into the ground. “Oh, I bought that, don’t worry.” A tendril of scarlet extends from her fingers, reaching in front of him to grab the wine bottle. “I hope you still like this kind.”

His eyes scan the label, a relatively young Riesling that should be crisp with subtle sweet tones. “I am certain I will not dislike it.” It’s not quite a snort, but her laugh manifests as a rush of air up her nose and a broad smile. Vision does his best to control the smile tugging at his lips, still blanketed in a general discomfort at being surprised. “Wanda?”

“Hmm?”

Her name rolled off his lips before he had the chance to determine exactly what he’d like to say, mind shorting out for roughly a second before he is able to choose a course of action, eyes searching the house to determine if his next suggestion is the correct option given the circumstances and his duty as a host. “Would you like to sit on the couch, it is far more cushioned and offers better lumbar support than the kitchen chairs.”

“Only if you bring the wine with you.”

“Of course, please” the stems of the glasses are crossed over each other in his hand, which means his gesture towards the living room is a bit rougher than intended, but Wanda understands his unspoken comment, flashes him a smirk before disappearing from the kitchen. It feels, not wrong, necessarily, but maybe indecorous (yet enticingly indecorous) to allow his eyes to follow the sway of her hips, to not stop his heart from increasing a beat or keep his fingers from tightening around the glasses. This, he has to keep reminding himself over and over, a mantra, maybe even a prayer, this cannot end well. Vision breathes in, trapping the air in his lungs long enough for it to burn, and then walks towards the couch, placing the glasses down before working the cork from the bottle. “You were saying, earlier, that you and Viv partook of breakfast?”

One of the glasses disappears from his hand as soon as it’s filled, floating through the air on a disk of scarlet being puppeteered by Wanda’s thumb and ring finger. “Yeah,” Vision settles onto the couch, placing himself one and a quarter cushions from Wanda, a distance that is close enough to allow friendly conversation, but far enough to remove temptation. “She just wanted to clarify some matters, talk through some concerns she had about how much time we’ve been spending together. It was a good talk.”  

“I-,” there is a subtext to the words but Wanda has always been an expert at concealing the subtext when she wishes for him to have to maneuver the conversation towards the information. “What,” he finds himself yet again thinking about strategy, contemplating the most appropriate move to come out of the puzzle of conversation victorious. For now he decides an upfront approach may be best. “What concerns did she have?”

Wanda sips her wine, eyes trained on the glass and the reflection of the distant fluorescent kitchen light hovering in the liquid. She clicks her tongue three times before her lips part, then close again, a nervous arc forming on her mouth, no doubt weighing the level of directness she desires to use. “She is worried I am going to hurt you again.”

This causes his heart to drop, nestling into his stomach where it increases its density to match that of a two-ton boulder. “I apologize,” he wonders if he needs to keep a closer eye on Viv, or if they need to discuss boundaries and information that is and is not okay to ask of others. “I have not been particularly skilled or forthright enough to explain the intricacies of...everything to her.”

Wanda shrugs, taking another sip of wine. “It’s not like she’s wrong. We’ve been pretty awful to each other at various points in time.” Which is putting it quite mildly. “But that was only half of her questions.”

“Oh?”

The calm surety drops momentarily from Wanda’s lips, the wine glass hovering just at her mouth, her lower lip pressed gently to the glass as a soft, almost imperceptible blush breaks on her cheeks. It is a stunning image, one he has already encoded, rehearsed, and stored without a second thought. “She asked-” the wine glass moves slightly, tapping against the disbelieving smirk on her face, “Here, I’ll ask you.” Wanda lowers the glass, turning her body towards him, her legs following the momentum and closing the carefully measured gap between them. In fact, all Vision has to do is turn 30 degrees and her foot would brush against his leg. “What’s the most embarrassing memory you have from our relationship?”

Embarrassment is not a particularly strong emotion for Vision, something he has always quietly believed sets him apart from humans, his mind, in general, fairly impenetrable to the rush of heat at doing something odd. Perhaps it is because he is himself an oddity that it is such an uncommon feeling. “Embarrassing?”

“Yeah,” she laughs, two short, slightly different ascending notes, “pretty sure my face looked just like yours when she asked me.” He has to stop trying to think of an answer in order to process the feel of his facial muscles, surprised to find his mouth forming a slight frown and the weight of a crinkled forehead pushing his eyes into a squint. Though he was not there for the moment, the image of Wanda’s face mimicking his expression is quite clear in his mind. “Come on, Vizh,” her accent thickens on the zh, a vocal trick she utilizes when he is being too, what she always called, stuffy.

“The most embarrassing?” The wine glass rotates in his fingers as he thinks, extrapolating from his memories an instance that someone else would find embarrassing, even if he himself does not recall such a feeling. “I believe it was when I rushed to your side, foregoing the mission despite knowing you were not actually harmed.”

“Which time?” This comment for some reason brings the feel of embers to his cheek, stoked by the impish smile on her face. “Mine was that time you phased me through the bed and I got stuck, but don’t worry, I left it vague, don’t want to scar Viv.”

The heat moves from his cheeks, racing down his throat where it bursts in his chest, bubbling back up as a hearty laugh. “I am certain she appreciated that.” He thinks back to that day and realizes it was, comparatively, quite embarrassing. “Jarvis was rather concerned.”

Her laughter joins his, the blush crawling down her cheeks where it engulfs her neck before branching under the neckline of her dress. “Tony probably still has the pictures. Not sure why you couldn’t just get me back out but you insisted on letting people help.”

“I-” Vision attempts to determine a defense, failing to procure one at the time and still utterly failing to have one now, “it seemed inconsiderate to deny their help.”

The you’re-so-full-of-shit stare on her face is enough to bring another laugh from his chest. “Says the ever so considerate man who never turned down leaving a battle for a quick make-out.”

“That is an entirely different matter.”

A sensation forms on his shin, a light, rhythmic tap. When he looks down he realizes it’s her foot, nudging him. “You just like to logic your way into making your behavior acceptable. Go ask Steve how much he liked holding Lady Liberty’s crown.”

“You were almost hurt, I had to check on you.”

Another nudge of her foot and he finds his body relaxing into the couch. “And when we ducked behind a tree while Count Nefaria was attacking?”

Vision finds himself shrugging, not filtering his words before saying them, “I felt it imperative in the moment to inform you of my love.” The air between them stiffens, Wanda’s wine glass hovering down to the table as she turns to face him directly, a terrifyingly neutral set to her mouth and eyes. “Wanda, I-”

“Do you,” the words are soft, as if her lungs are weakened and unable to produce fully rounded syllables, “do you ever.” The thing Vision has always admired about Wanda, even when it annoyed him beyond words, was her inability to mask her emotions for long, wearing them much like a sweater, warm and welcoming and easy to parse out. Currently her mouth is quivering, eyes blinking at a rapid rate while she stares at her hands. Vision is not certain why he feels this is best, but he reaches out to calm her antsy fingers, envelopes her hands in his own.

“Wanda?” Eventually she stops avoiding his gaze, making eye contact along with her best attempt at a reassuring smile. “Please tell me what is on your mind, I lack your abilities to simply take the information.”

This seems to shatter her nervousness, the grin tipping up into a genuine, albeit sardonic, arc. “You’re ridiculous.” Her hands rotate just enough to bring her palms flat against his, fingers weaving between his, forming a mesmerizing alternating pattern of crimson and peach. “Do you ever think we’ll have that again?”

It is a question he has avoided, pushed aside even with admitting to Viv his own burgeoning feelings. “I-” their relationship had always been built on honesty and trust, yet cut and tarnished by insecurities and the inability to regroup and cope as a unit when the worst happened (though sometimes it was out of their control). Perhaps, and it is a big perhaps, they could learn from their mistake. “I have never lost that love for you, Wanda Maximoff. It,” honesty is probably not a mistake and so he reasons he should continue that trait, “has diminished, but it has never completely vanished.”

The minuscule tilt of her mouth is promising. “Same.” At some point his body moved, now only half a cushion from her but it allows him a better vantage of her features, the hope in her eyes that is surrounded by the bite of uncertainty and the wraith of their past. “Would it be a mistake to,” she breathes out, a partial laugh conveying perfectly the tightness gripping his chest, the anticipation and terror at what they seem to be inching towards, “try again?”

“That is a statistically supported possibility.” Her face falls, eyes developing a sheen of water as she turns from him, but Vision phases a hand from her grip, placing it along her jaw to redirect her attention. “There is also error in statistics, other interpretations, which means it is also possible,” the diminishing distance between their faces distracts him momentarily, overcome by the wisp of air leaving her mouth to dance along his skin, “it is also possible that we could learn from our past and succeed.”

“Is that what you want?”

Viv has pestered him about it, demanded an answer, and clearly grew impatient enough to have set up this intervention. “Only if we take it slow, establish ground rules - such as Viv is important to me- that will take precedence.”

“Of course.” Her hand runs along the edge of his v-neck and his eyes close at the sensation. “Vizh?”

“Wanda?”

There is now only a quarter of a cushion between them, her legs shoving his slightly to allow her to get closer. “Could I kiss you first and then we set the rules?”

A shaky “Of course,” leaves his mouth just before the press of her lips to his renders all other thoughts or concerns unintelligible, his body responding, leaning forward to reciprocate the kiss and he is enthralled at the ridges on her lips, having forgotten exactly how they felt, and the way they seemed to capture the sweetness of the wine, reserving it for him to savor. And then she pulls back, palm laid on his chest as a smile overtakes her face, working its way up into her eyes and sending shockwaves of wrinkles out when he matches her grin.

“So,” Wanda scoots back, removing her legs from between his, but her hand continues to touch him, trailing down his chest and making a short jump to rest on his knee. “Viv told me she’d make sure I disappeared from the Earth if this went wrong, so we probably should set those rules, huh?”

Vision nods, identifying the heat in his chest as affection, a hesitant affection but one he hopes continues to grow, that is never shattered by a wave of red or a whispered curse, one that is never stifled by his own anger and misgivings about if he is human. Because this is likely going to fail, history repeats, but for the first time in a long time he has some amount of hope that perhaps, for once, life will favor a new beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Real quick run down of recent comic events that are relevant for this story (feel free to correct me, or offer more detail).  
> 1\. Wanda and Vision have not been together for a long time :(  
> 2\. Wanda was on a mission to discover herself again and regain control of her powers.  
> 3\. Vision created a family for himself and they lived in the suburbs. Unfortunately his son (Vin) and wife (Virginia) died. So it is now just him and his daughter Viv.  
> 4\. Secret Wars happened...so Captain America (an alternate one?) is evil and takes over Hydra in an effort to get a cosmic cube and destroy everyone else. Wanda gets possessed by a demon and Vision is overrun by a computer virus. Both have lost control of their bodies and are forced to work for Hydra-Steve. There is an unfortunate and nonconsensual hook-up in there. But then yay! No longer demon possessed or infected and real, good Steve wins.  
> 5\. That's it, now you know as much as I do.
> 
> I really truly hope you enjoyed this! Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Have a wonderful day and happy Scarlet Vision Exchange!


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